


Everything can stay the same or we could change it all

by Nina36



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix It Fic, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, i hate the episode with a burning passion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: He could tell him, scream until he was hoarse, that it hadn’t been his fault. He had been a child, for God’s sake! He had spent all his life putting together pieces of complicated puzzles, solving mysteries, helping people, refusing to care about the victims because he had failed to solve a puzzle when he was a child.He could tell him that it should be Mycroft, or his parents – or bloody Scotland Yard, but Sherlock would not listen.





	

That thing they had was delicate, now. It was raw and different than what it used to be.

But then again they _were_ different men: older, scarred, wiser, fucked up to the point that they could only really work and function with each other.

Baker Street was still a wreck; Sherlock couldn’t conceivably live there for the time being and John had not missed the look of genuine surprise in the man’s eyes when he had offered him to stay with him (at his flat, his mind hastily added) until the mess was sorted out.

Sherlock was – a goddamn miracle, he thought.

Sherlock was – family and he wasn’t sure he wanted to dwell on the implications of that statement. He wasn’t sure he deserved to know.

Sherlock was – awake, downstairs. He had firmly but politely refused to take the bed, assuring him that the couch would be fine.

No harsh words, no signs of the _soldier_ he had seen at Sherrinford: he had looked tired and haunted.

Whenever he had tried to close his eyes he had kept seeing Sherlock pressing a gun to his chin, counting down to ten.

He had been – paralyzed by that sight, his body and brain suddenly numb.

_Soldiers today._

And soldiers died all the bloody time. Soldiers gave up their lives for their Country, for their fellow men on the field, for the greater good.

True. All true.

And yet –

And yet his brain had just frozen, jerked back to a grey morning when he had seen a silhouette on a rooftop – and in the span of five seconds he had finally, finally understood what had really happened that day.

Oh, sure, Sherlock had told him about the three bullets destined to Greg, Mrs. Hudson and him, but he had not truly got the implications until he had seen how easy it was for Sherlock to put other people’s lives above his own.

He had not even tried to point the gun at him and Mycroft had known –

And he was a fucking, bloody, dickhead!

Sherlock was –

Sherlock was pacing the sitting room, downstairs. He was not being loud as not to wake Rosie up, but he had lived with the man. He recognized the sounds he was making. He had missed those noises.

And he had heard him screaming at Sherrinford, and he was wondering how could he have been so fucking blind.

“You didn’t forgive him –“ It was Mary’s voice. He still heard her from time to time, but then again he had kept hearing and seeing Sherlock fucking everywhere for almost a year after – _after._ Unlike the woman she had been when she was alive, the Mary in his mind _never_ lied.

“I have, now.” He said to the empty room.

“That’s great. So, why aren’t you downstairs?” Mary asked.

“I – he needs space right now.” He replied.

He could _hear_ her eye roll. “He needs you.” She said, after a moment, “And you need him. You always have. You always will.”

True. All so bloody true. And yet, he couldn’t move for a moment, not until he heard, clearly, the muffled sounds coming from downstairs: a sob and then another. It sounded painful, it sounded like those sounds were being pried apart from him, from Sherlock’s soul.

He was out of the room, barefoot, before he could even think.

* * *

 

He would gladly and remorselessly kill Sherlock’s family for what they had done to the child he had been. All of them: his parents, Mycroft, Eurus, fucking uncle Rudy. And he would gladly kill himself for the number he had made on Sherlock for the past year.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, hugging his knees against his chest, his head hidden in his palms.

He was not a machine. He was not a high functioning sociopath. And he sure as hell wasn’t a monster, but Sherlock was _his_ , nevertheless. They only truly had each other.

“Go away,” Sherlock mumbled.

And it hit John – just how much it must have hurt Sherlock to hear him say similar words (no, worse, far much worse) – because – who else could there be there for him?

He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He could only hear Sherlock trying to muffle sobs against his palms, and he was afraid of doing anything that might upset the man.

“This is not a case and it is _not_ one of your adrenaline fixes. Go. Away!” Sherlock hissed. His voice was broken, he could hear tears in them, but also anger.

And it was – good. Sherlock had repressed his feelings for so long that it was good that he was being hurtful. And he deserved it.

“That’s not why I am here,” John said.

Sherlock stilled – and then  _flinched_ when he took a step toward him.

 _It’s not about you. Don’t be a tosser._ He reminded himself.

“John –“ Sherlock’s tone of voice was warning him to back off, but it was also a plea, for what exactly he didn’t understand.

He squatted in front of him, the silence and half darkness in the room eerie and heavy around them.

“I am here,” John said. He should have said it a long time before. He should have said and done more. He should have seen that Sherlock was coming undone long before discovering about Eurus.

He could see him, now, despite the darkness in the room. He was there, with him, and he would not leave him. Ever.

A watery chuckle, another sob fighting to escape from Sherlock’s lips. He hesitated, longer than he should, actually, before placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee.

He did not flinch – but he did not look at him, either – and that was a man he had really never truly dealt with. He had had to be a soldier and pick him up at Sherrinford, but he did not know how to help the man in front of him.

“Sherlock –“ He said, “look at me, please?”

He shook his head, like a little kid and his heart broke, once again, for the child, he had been – for the scars in his soul.

“You told me we are humans, remember?” John said, “please –“

Sherlock jerked his head up: eyes puffy and red-rimmed, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He was – had always been rubbish with feelings, with emotions, but that was Sherlock and he had always been the exception to every rule he had.

“Please –“ He repeated.

He didn’t even know what he was pleading for: allowing him to help him? Forgive him? Granting him access, even if he didn’t truly deserve it?

Sherlock’s hand was almost unnaturally cold, but John did not move a muscle when Sherlock twined their fingers together. It was – more intimate, in a way han the hug they had shared at Baker Street.

“I feel like I don’t know what I am any longer,” Sherlock said, after a moment.

His voice was hoarse, he was still crying, but at least the sobs had subsided.

“A son, a brother, a friend, a pirate, a consulting detective, a hero, my –“ John hesitated.

Family? Best friend? What were those words even supposed to mean? Sherlock was so much more than that to him; he had always been since that crazy first night spent chasing a cab through London.

Sherlock sensed his hesitation, he was looking at him, and even in his current status (heartbreak, confusion, grief,) he supposed it must be easy to deduce him.

“My world.” He said eventually. He didn’t know how to say it better, he hoped he had a lifetime to learn how.

“And you deserve so much more than this–“ John trailed, “you can have –“

“If you once again bring Irene Adler into this, I will murder you.” Sherlock said flatly.

 _This._ What was _this,_ exactly?

“I just want you to be happy. I don’t know anyone who deserves it more than you.” He said.

Sherlock closed his eyes, he saw him working his throat, before saying, “I used to be – “

He was holding his hand, and John had no idea whether he was referring to his childhood or something else.

“You need to rest.” He said, instead.

Sherlock shook his head but looked at him when he said, “Apparently, I’ve been living with fractured memories all my life. Resting doesn’t sound like a good idea right now,”

“Luckily for you, I am a doctor and a war veteran.” He said. He tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure whether it came out right. He tugged at Sherlock’s hand and silently invited him to get up.

Sherlock complied. The fact that after _everything_ he still trusted him was humbling to him.

“Where are we going?” Sherlock asked, looking around almost owlishly.

“Bed,” John said. And he never thought he would utter that word to Sherlock.

He expected a token protest, but Sherlock didn’t say a word, he followed him upstairs, only hesitating on the threshold of his bedroom. There were things that sooner or later they would need to discuss, but it was not the moment, not the night, not the circumstance. Sherlock needed him.

He tucked Sherlock in, and slipped under the covers, without hesitating.

Sherlock was shivering and he was pretty sure it was not for the cold. Delayed shock reaction. Sherlock might be a highly rational person, but his life had turned upside down in the span of a day, it was a goddamn miracle he was not having a mental breakdown, especially after –

After almost killing himself for him.

Christ, he thought, scooting closer to the man in the bed.

“I am not actually a child, John,” Sherlock said between clenched teeth.

“Shut up, I’m cold.” He said, trying to sound casual and fond, it was important that Sherlock heard how much he lo – cared about him. 

Another lie, another excuse, but – it was for a good cause, for once.

“Will you come with me tomorrow?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sure,” John said. He didn’t ask where he didn’t ask why.

“It’s not a case – it’s _personal,_ ” Sherlock added.

He supposed he deserved that. He _was_ an adrenaline junkie and he had treated Sherlock as his dealer since he had come back. And that was not really the moment to tell him why, to tell him that he was and had always been so much more than that for him.

“Yes,” John repeated. _Yes_ , to everything.

“Your eloquence, as ever, astounds me, John,” Sherlock replied, but he could hear relief in the man’s voice, and exhaustion.

“Sleep, idiot. I will be here.” He said.

No clever retorts, no snappy comebacks, just a soft sigh that John didn’t know how to interpret.

It didn’t matter. Sherlock believed him.

Or so he fervently hoped. 

* * *

 

 The drive took hours. Sherlock didn’t tell him where they were going, he had insisted on driving, telling him that he had seen him driving and even his suicidal tendencies had limits.

Sherlock had had nightmares, he had had a very restless night and John had witnessed every single moment of it, trying his best to soothe him, trying to anchor him. He had no idea whether he had succeeded, but he would not stop trying. 

They talked about Baker Street; apparently, Sherlock had a trust fund, which explained how he could afford living alone in central London but did not explain why he had needed a flatmate in the first place.

Well. It did, but – he couldn’t go there. Not yet.

He had told Sherlock that he would be glad to help, once he would start sorting out the mess in the flat. Sherlock had smiled, but – it had felt forced. He looked about ready to snap in two, but he kept on driving.

 The silence was not entirely unpleasant, nevertheless, John felt on edge as if he was supposed to say something, to burst the words out of that thick silence – because all the words he wanted to say were about Sherlock.

He nodded off, kipping for a while, only waking up when he felt the car slowing down to a stop.

“Where are we?” John asked. He looked around: they were in the middle of nowhere, just a few cottages on both sides of the road.

“You can wait here if you want,” Sherlock said.

“Where are we?” John repeated.

“Victor’s parents live here,” Sherlock said. His voice was neutral, a very good impression of the man he had met at Barts if it weren’t that his hands were clenching the steering wheel and he looked like he had aged about ten years overnight.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said

  “Yes, I have to. No one else will – and it’s my fault,” Sherlock said, without looking at him.

He could tell him, scream until he was hoarse, that it hadn’t been his fault. He had been a child, for God’s sake! He had spent all his life putting together pieces of complicated puzzles, solving mysteries, helping people, refusing to care about the victims because he had failed to solve a puzzle when he was a child.

He could tell him that it should be Mycroft, or his parents – or bloody Scotland Yard, but Sherlock would not listen.

And he could still – and probably would always – read him like an open book, because he said, “He was my best friend. My only friend. I have to.”

Clipped sentences, soft voice, shadows under his eyes, he looked exhausted, more than he had ever seen him, but he knew he would get out of the car, knock on the door of the Trevors cottage, tell them their boy’s remains had been found and take whatever came from them.

“Stay here,” Sherlock said.

“Nope.” John said with a tone that implied it was not up to debate.

Sherlock froze, his hand on the handle of the door, he was looking at him questioningly – he was angry (at him? At himself?) and John saw him ponder his word, gauging the sincerity in it, evaluating whether he truly wanted him there with him or not.

He nodded tersely, in the end.

And John would never, ever forget the look of mistrust that, for a moment, passed in Sherlock’s eyes. He supposed, after everything that had happened between them, he deserved it.

It didn’t hurt any less.

 

* * *

 

 

 Sherlock gave Victor’s father, his mother had passed away not knowing what had happened to her only son, an edited version of the truth. John had no idea whether he had done that to protect his family or that man. Possibly both.

He did not try, not even once, to protect himself, however. He was taking full responsibility for something that was not, had never been, his fault.

It could have been worse: Victor’s father could have lashed out at Sherlock, he could have blamed him. And part of John believed that Sherlock would rather face blame than _gratitude._

“You brought him home, at last.” Victor’s father said.

Sherlock had not replied to that. But John saw – and God, he wished he didn’t – what he wanted to say, how he wanted to dash that man’s gratitude. He didn’t because – he was a good man. He had always been a good man, trapped in fractured memories and a lifetime of lies his family told him to protect his heart.

Victor’s father had excused himself for a minute, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the reality, the dashed hope that must have lingered for thirty years that his son might be still alive somewhere – and had come back, in the Spartan but tidy sitting room holding a photograph.

“Here –“ The man had said, giving him the photograph of two children dressed as pirates, smiling and looking at the camera. Sherlock smiled but blinked his eyes repeatedly as he looked at the photograph.

Victor’s father insisted on Sherlock keeping that picture, he had not even acknowledged his presence there, nor had Sherlock introduced him in any way. He felt like a ghost, like a silent witness, a not exactly welcome presence.

He could still see, with his mind’s eyes, that gray room, Mycroft, Sherlock and him and Eurus’ words. He could see Sherlock and Mycroft fighting their own battle of lies, masking the brotherly love they had for each other and Sherlock pointing a gun at Mycroft.

After everything that had happened. And Sherlock was angry, now. He felt like he was accepting his presence more like penance and yet another act of self-flagellation rather than actually wanting him in his life.

“Thank you,” Victor’s father said as he guided them to the door.

“Scotland Yard will be in touch very soon –“ Sherlock replied.

“Mr. Holmes – William,” The man said, they were outside on the porch.

William?

Sherlock did not correct the man; William was Sherlock’s first name, after all.

“You were a very bright child, but you were just that: a child. It was _not_ your fault.” The man said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, John knew him enough to predict all the sort of rebuttals he might have used, but he chose not to.

“Thank you, Mr. Trevor. I shall try and remember that.” Sherlock said politely.

Sherlock reverted back to very formal language, letting his public school education out only as a defense mechanism. But that man could not know that. He didn’t know what that tragedy had done to Sherlock.

He had not known either, but it wasn’t an excuse in his case.

* * *

 

“Pull over,” Sherlock said.

He had insisted on driving on the way back to London and Sherlock had not said a word about it. He had not looked at the picture, he had put it in the inside pocket of his coat and had ignored him.

“Is everything okay?” John asked, but he was already pulling over to the side of the road.

Sherlock ignored his words and got out of the car, he took but a few steps and then fell to his knees and retched to the side of the road.

He hesitated before touching him, and Sherlock flinched, again and shoved him away with a hand.

“I don’t need your bloody pity. Piss off!” Sherlock said when he moved again toward him.

“It’s not pity –“ John said.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, he wiped his mouth and leveled him with the coldest gaze he had ever directed at him.

“What is it, then?” He asked, his voice sharp and filled with vitriol, “what am I to you, John? A manchild you can mock openly? Your enabler? A punching bag? A scapegoat for all the wrong choices you have made? A machine?”

He rose to his feet, and it was a man he did not know – he was what had come out of the games his sister had played on him. Sherlock took his mobile from a pocket of his coat, swiftly composed a text; he immediately got a reply, only then did he look at him.

 “Until you make up your mind – and as much as I loathe to be apart from you, I need to be alone. I can barely hold myself together, John.”

He shook his head. That was – not what he had expected. Sherlock started to walk, without turning; he was unsteady on his feet, but he kept going.

“Sherlock, wait!” John said, walking toward him.

He saw Sherlock heaving his shoulders and stop. He turned slowly toward him and said, “I have known Irene Adler’s whereabouts for years. I never once considered reaching out to her, but I put myself through hell for you. What might you deduce about my heart? About what I want?”

“Where are you going?” John asked, feeling numb, all of sudden.

“Mycroft is sending a car. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an apology to make to a friend for exploiting her feelings.”

 “Sherlock –“ John trailed.

Sherlock shook his head, “If or when you make up your mind, you know where to find me, John. 221B Baker Street.”

* * *

 

He had put the waltz Sherlock had composed for his wedding in an envelope and had had Molly give it to him with harsh words. He had been hurting, he had been misplacing blames and lash out at Sherlock thinking he would not care. Not really.

Sherlock did not feel things like other people. Had not been his alibi for years?

Sherlock was a liar, a manipulative, cruel bastard. That had been a mantra, something he had kept telling himself even when facts and actions started to pile up and contradict those words.

Sherlock had broken his heart. That was the truth. He had broken his heart in so many pieces that he was still grieving, years later. Sherlock had walked through the fire for him, once. He had killed and bled and unraveled completely for him. And, somehow, he had taken it all for granted. He had felt entitled to it as if Sherlock deserved it for breaking his heart, as if he owned him.

First, after Sherlock left him there, in the middle of the road, without turning his back to him, there had been anger. Anger was how he reacted to everything.

Hours upon hours of self-righteous anger.

He used to think he was better than that. He used to think he had a moral high ground with Sherlock. He used to think so many things that had proven to be utter bullshit.

Hours that turned into days as he held his mobile phone in his hand, wrote and deleted texts, cared for his daughter, went to work and knew, without a doubt, that Sherlock had been serious. It had not been a bluff.

There were no black cars following home or to work, no ominous shadowy government figure making themselves known, no texts from Mrs. Hudson or Greg or even Molly. Even Mary, in his head, was shutting up.

It was sleepless nights, tossing and turning in his bed, eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, his mobile phone silent, as he deconstructed and examined almost a decade of his life.

It was sorting through pictures in his laptop and coming across snapshots of his life with Sherlock, realizing that he did not actually remember what his life before meeting that infuriatingly brilliant man used to be like.

It was remembering that Sherlock had allowed him to go to pieces and held him as he mourned the life he had so desperately wanted to have and the man he so desperately wanted to be.

It was the fact, the very simple truth that he loved Sherlock Holmes.

No.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He had been in love with him – had tried everything he could to fall out of love with him, had tried hard to love Mary and had failed.

And he could not, would not lose Sherlock, again over fear.

* * *

  
  


He still had the keys to Baker Street. It hit him that Mrs. Hudson had never rented the upstairs bedroom since Sherlock had come back.

He truly was an idiot, Sherlock had been right the first time he had said it.

Baker Street was still a mess and Mrs. Hudson was not home when he got inside. She had taken everything in stride, accepting the check Mycroft had given her with a shrug of her shoulders and a practical attitude that never ceased to amaze him.

Seventeen steps – a battlefield, a decade of miscommunication and unspoken words and blindness. He held tighter the package in his hand and swallowed as he stopped in front of the door.

It was not open. He chose not to see it as a sign, an omen and knocked. He could still smell burnt material, the objects that had been part of his life long after he had moved out from that flat.

He could use his key, he should – but he had to do things properly, for once. He had to act and speak and show Sherlock that he had made up his mind, that he would be his and his alone if he wanted him.

No more alibis, no more projecting, no more excuses.

Sherlock opened the door and blinked. He looked pale and still had shadows under his eyes, he was wearing his Shezza attire, but he was clean – well, except for the dirt on his face and hands.

“May I come in?” He asked.

Sherlock took a step back. Oh, he knew that it must have taken Sherlock a second, even less, to deduce his life, his thoughts ever since their last conversation. It didn’t matter what had been done to him when he was a child, Sherlock had turned it and made himself a brilliant, extraordinary man out of it.

“Please –“ Sherlock said gesturing him inside, “I would offer you a cup of tea, but the flat is still a mess as you can see.”

John nodded, “Where are you staying?” He asked.

“A hotel.” Sherlock replied, “believe it or not, I do know how to deal with mundane things.”

John sighed. “Ok, I deserve that.”

“How is Rosie?” Sherlock asked casually. He had been in the middle of sorting through his bookshelves; he saw a pile of charred volumes and one of the salvageable ones. The explosion had randomly spared some things and destroyed others. Just like life, he supposed.

“Fine. She is sleeping at nights, unlike her father.” John said.

Sherlock nodded but didn’t comment on his words.

John wanted to ask him how Molly was doing, how Mycroft was dealing with the aftermath of what had happened. He wanted to ask about Eurus.

“How are you?” He asked instead.

It was a loaded question masked by small talk and they both knew it.

“Fine, all things considered,” Sherlock replied.

He didn’t sound angry, there was no vitriol or venom in his voice, he was being practical.

“Did you talk to someone about –“ John trailed.

Sherlock chuckled, “Oh, twice a week since Mary died. Didn’t really help, but she says that I am doing fine, better than expected given the circumstances”

He wasn’t looking at him, he had moved away from him and was still sorting through the books on the shelves. John felt his heart hammer in his chest. He had not known that. He had not known Sherlock had sought help after Mary’s death.

“You didn’t kill her – and I was wrong when I blamed you,” John said, taking a step toward him.

“We have covered this already, John – no need to be redundant,” Sherlock replied.

_Ok Watson: chin up and own your fuck ups._

“I thought all I could have from you was the adrenaline rushes. I thought I was addicted to that, but you have always been more to me.” He said, “and as ever you’re right: I see but I do not observe.”

Sherlock stilled his movements, he was holding two books, one in each hand and was not looking at him, but he was listening, so it was only fair that he talked.

“I did not want to see – the man you have become.” He whispered.

Sherlock turned. It was incredible how even dressed as he was, he was still elegant, he was still the most striking person he had ever laid eyes on.

“Why?” Sherlock asked. His voice was low, the tone genuinely inquisitive.

“Because it would mean I had no excuses, it would mean that I had married a woman I didn’t really love rather than being myself,” John admitted. He drew in a breath and added, “And I wanted you to be in love with a lesbian dominatrix because –“

“Because you are an idiot!” Sherlock said. His lips quivered for a moment as if he was trying very hard not to smile.

“You already said that,” John replied.

“Some things bear repeating,” Sherlock quipped. He was smiling, but he was still wary.

John smiled back – and for a moment he was tempted to let it all slide and he knew that, despite everything he had said Sherlock would let him. Sherlock loved him _that_ much. The thing was? He loved Sherlock Holmes just as much. He had given him the simplified version the night before going to the Trevors' cottage: he was his whole world. And still, it didn't encompass everything he felt for him. 

“The point is –“ He said, sobering up, “that I am in love with you. I have for years! And I have hated myself for that. And I have hated you for that – and I still love you more than everything. You said that I should be back if or when I made up my mind. Well, here I am.”

He shortened the distance between them and handed him the bag he had been carrying, “Uhm – here.” He said.

Sherlock’s face was absolutely blank, he saw him placing the books he had been holding on the floor, he saw him dusting his hands on his trousers before he took the bag from his hands.

“John –“ He said and there was genuine surprise and awe in his voice as he held the violin in his hands. It was – the best he had found in London, he had spent hours searching for it, first online and then in stores. Sherlock’s violin had been destructed by the explosion, but it was time to rebuild: their lives, their memories.

“You play the violin when you are thinking, you don’t talk for days on end, you sulk, you are a terrible slob, you don’t know a thing about the solar system, but you love Shakespeare, you throw tantrums when the fridge is empty and make excellent tea. I love you – and I want to come back home.”

“I am a mess,” Sherlock breathed, “I have scars, I have nightmares, I am an arsehole and, for the record, I am gay. And yes, of course, you can come back home.”

He was smiling. They both were. And the scars still ran deep, and he was sure they would fight and they would bicker and revert, sometimes, to their old patterns because they were two idiots.

But they were together. They would always be together.

“Can I kiss you now?” John asked.

Sherlock beamed at him.

It was awkward because – there was so much between them, and first kisses were always a bit messy. Sherlock’s hands were big, and he was hesitant and sweet and John was sure that he was already addicted to Sherlock’s taste – and it was good.

It was what it was. It was them, together.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
